If we had more moons,
months would fracture into innumerable shards
and broken Junes would rhyme with multiplication;
December's segments would twitch and sparkle
along the arched spine of winter.
Tides would become tentative
and wait for more gregarious skies
to swell like the noise of a crowded party
after the rumor spreads.
Anyone can fill a myriad of jiggers with mercury,
center another moon in each mirrored meniscus,
swirl or jiggle the silvery apparitions,
and watch them ripple and divide.
The largest planet, with a red heart that bleeds,
has a month of moons orbiting like butterflies
whose bright wings slowly open or close
and good-natured women who never know
when their next period is due, its time and tide
unpredictable as the next flickering moonrise.